


Supper in Bed

by winteringinrome



Series: Cousins [2]
Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Eating, F/F, Ficlet, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Pure Schmoop, Schmoop, Soft Ann(e)s, buns, nothing but schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-14 05:50:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20595749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winteringinrome/pseuds/winteringinrome
Summary: Synopsis is, Ann eats some buns and then has a nap. That is literally it.





	Supper in Bed

**Author's Note:**

> So here is a little timestamp for my [Visiting Cousins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20316079/chapters/48166666) story. I actually wrote most of this alongside the main story but, when it came to finalising the last chapter, it just didn’t quite fit in. But I wanted to post it because it felt like there was one vital weapon left out of Anne's period PMS arsenal – namely _carbs_. So may I present to you a little ficlet where Anne brings Ann carbs, that happens somewhere between the sex in Chapter 3 of Visiting Cousins and the last scene with the Ann(e)s in bed. Is there a fluff equivalent for PWP? Because this is fluff-without-plot. I cannot stress this enough – literally nothing happens. Enjoy!

When Ann has changed her linens and found a new pair of drawers and has, at last, been permitted to put on her nightdress, she yawns and stretches and marvels at how well she feels. Her stomach is still a little tender, her back a little sore, but it is nothing compared to earlier or how she would normally feel.

She is tired, but not that listless, stupefied tiredness that would come over her at Crow Nest. It feels instead like the satisfactory weariness of muscles worn out from a good day's labour, as though she had been outdoors all day and is tired from the fresh air and the exertion and the feel of wind through her hair.

Although it must be still early, only eight or so in the evening, Ann climbs into bed and tucks the blankets over her legs. Anne has gone downstairs to say goodnight to her aunt, so the little bedroom is quiet and still around her, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the grate and the gentle patter of rain against the window.

She had noticed yesterday that the cuffs on Anne's spencer were in need of mending, and had set it to one side, and now she takes it up, along with her needle and thread, and begins to darn. The comfort of the bed and the steady movement of her needle and the soft sound of rain on the glass soon sends her into something of a trance.

When, some twenty minutes or so later, Anne returns, it startles her. She looks up from her sewing in surprise to see Anne pushing open the door with a foot, her arms laden.

Ann hurriedly sets aside the jacket and jumps up to help.

“I thought you might be hungry,” Anne says, passing her a plate stacked with buns, which are still steaming slightly from being toasted, and a bowl of warmed milk. “Cordingley was still up.”

At the sight of the food Ann realises she is indeed hungry, ravenous in fact. She looks for a place to sit and eat and, Anne’s desk being covered in papers and piles of books, she puts the plates on the nightstand and sits cross-legged on the bed.

“Oh and this is for you too,” Anne rummages in the pocket of her dressing gown and pulls out an object wrapped in a towel. Ann reaches for it.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

“What is it?”

“A stomach tin.”

Ann looks at her blankly.

“It is filled with boiling water. It’s to warm your stomach or your back, or wherever is aching. My aunt uses them often in the winter when her rheumatism ails her.”

Ann dutifully tucks the wrapped tin in her lap. Anne is right – within seconds the warmth against her stomach has soothed away the last of her soreness.

“How is your aunt?” she asks, as she takes a sip of the milk.

“Well.” Anne settles herself at the foot of the bed. “Her leg has not troubled her much today.”

“I’m glad.” Ann takes another sip, the milk is warm and creamy and very good. “Did she think it odd that we were away to bed so early?”

“Oh my aunt is used to a little oddness in this household. And she knew there had been a ... an incident. Marian had already delighted in telling everyone that I had made you cry.”

“Oh dear.” Ann is only half listening now, for she has taken her first bite of the buns and is thoroughly distracted by how delicious they are. The top edge is lightly crisped by the fire, the bottom is soft and doughy and the whole thing covered in a rich layer of melting butter.

“Mm, yes everyone was very concerned that I had upset you. I think they are already quite fond of you. I was scolded like a child by my father, and Cordingley –”

Ann finishes the last of that bun and picks up another. She bites into it, relishing the crunch of the crust and then the soft crumbs soaked by butter, the delicious, salty, savouriness of it all. Why did food at Crow Nest never taste this good?

“I have been warned to be on my best behaviour – ” Anne is still talking but breaks off with a laugh. “Were you hungry, Ann?”

Ann, who is licking melted butter from her fingers, freezes, abashed.

“Yes,” she says through her final mouthful and then, with sudden horror, looks down at the empty plate before her. “Oh Lord Anne, were some of those meant to be for you?”

Anne throws back her head in laughter. Eventually she says, “I had some cold cuts when I was downstairs, while I waited for Cordingley. Don’t worry, it is nice to see you with such an appetite.”

“I can’t remember the last time I was so hungry.”

“You’re covered in crumbs. You’re worse than Joseph!”

Ann laughs and tries to wipe her face.

“No, not there. Here – ”

And there doesn’t really seem to be any other solution than for Anne to come close and kiss the crumbs from Ann’s mouth. Still laughing, they melt into each other, the kiss tastes of toast and cream and warmth and home.

“Now,” Anne says, at last, settling herself back against the head-board and putting her feet up, “come here and tell me about your plans for the chaumière garden.”

If it were possible to feel the sensation of one’s eyes lighting up, Ann thinks she would feel that now. She lies back, tucking herself into Anne’s outstretched arm, her head resting on Anne’s shoulder.

“I want it to be a proper little cottage garden,” she begins and the vision blooms at once before her eyes, “filled with flowers and herbs and fruit. Nothing ornamental or fussy, like Crow Nest. I want everything we plant to be bright and homely and _useful_, if possible – either flowers that attract the bees or things we can eat or that can be used in the kitchen. Pickells said perhaps we could grow something around the door too, wisteria he said or I thought honeysuckle perhaps, so that you could smell it as you went inside.”

Anne rests her cheek on the top of Ann’s head. “It sounds like a very pretty plan,” she murmurs.

“Yes,” Ann says, with satisfaction. “It will be.” She yawns and presses closer into Anne. “And could we get a plum tree, do you think?”

“I am sure we can.”

“And what about oranges? Can one grow oranges in England?”

“I will speak to Mr. Pickells about oranges.”

“Oh and Anne, I had thought perhaps a bench down by the brook, so we can sit there in the evenings…”

Her voice trails off and she dozes in Anne's arms and dreams of roses and lilacs and of Anne in amongst all that colour, standing tall and dark and beautiful.


End file.
